Like Mother, Like Daughter

by Elle Croft

  ‘Brad told her,’ she answered, her anger dissipating and turning into confusion. Why did they need her to answer this? Shouldn’t they just ask Kat? ‘She’d said she didn’t want me to come home, so Brad asked if she could at least drop some of my stuff off at his place. Then when she came, she said she’d changed her mind and wanted me to come back after all. She attacked Brad.’

  The cops exchanged a glance. Something in the back of Imogen’s mind twisted. The words sounded wrong in the air. Something was missing, only she couldn’t understand what it was. She pushed the thoughts away. It didn’t matter any more. Brad was gone. She blinked away the tears that welled up in her eyes.

  ‘Imogen,’ the older cop said kindly. ‘Kat and Dylan have been looking for you relentlessly since you left. Kat wasn’t in touch with Brad before last night.’

  ‘But he showed me her message,’ she said, her confusion amplifying.

  ‘I don’t know what message you saw – we’ll look into it – but I can assure you, Imogen, Kat wanted you home. Don’t ever doubt that.’

  The clock above the door ticked into the silence that expanded around them. Imogen tried to adjust her recollection, to recalibrate the facts. But it was messy, and she was so tired, and all she wanted was to be alone with her memories of her brother, to relive every moment without anyone muddying the truth.

  ‘If we can just go back to when Kat arrived at Brad’s house,’ the young cop said, clearing his throat. ‘What happened when you saw her lying there?’

  ‘I ran over to check that she was OK,’ she explained. ‘I asked Brad to take her inside. I wanted to get her some water. He said that there wasn’t enough room in the house, so he’d take her out the back. He carried her off, and I went inside to find her something to drink. I took a glass of water out to Brad’s shed.’

  ‘This is really helpful,’ the older cop said. ‘You’re doing a great job, Imogen; you’re really helping us. Can you tell us what happened when you got to the shed?’

  She squeezed her eyes closed. She had replayed those few minutes over and over again in her mind. The scene was printed in her memory forever. But so were the words that Kat had whispered in her ear as they left the horror of the shed behind them, before they were swept into ambulances and wrapped in blankets and told that everything was going to be fine.

  Once upon a time, she’d believed that telling the truth was always the right thing to do. She’d seen the world in black and white. But now she understood that every decision in life was a compromise, shades of grey painted by so many factors. Right wasn’t always right, and wrong wasn’t always wrong. Just like her identity, the truth was ever-changing, determined by so much more than cold, hard facts.

  She couldn’t say for certain who she was, or what she believed, any more. She was no longer the naive, lost girl who ran away from home, driven by the sting of betrayal and the promise of something more, something she believed would make her whole. Nor was she the confused, angry girl who stood over Kat in the shed, desperate to earn her brother’s love, desperate to belong. She guessed that she was something in between. A little bit of a Braidwood, a little bit of a Sanders. Light and dark, coexisting.

  And so she forced aside the image of Brad, a halo of blood spreading from beneath his limp body, and began speaking, her voice clear and strong, her eyes locked with those of the policeman.

  Chapter 63

  KAT

  ‘And can you describe what happened next?’

  I hold Troy’s gaze. His expression is neutral, probably well rehearsed so as not to give away his thoughts. I hope my face is equally impassive, that he can’t detect my pounding heart or the bead of sweat slowly slipping between my shoulder blades. He can’t see the wrestling match that’s going on in my mind, the desperate scramble to reach a decision, to know with certainty the right thing to do.

  I breathe in deeply. It’s shaky, my chest not working as it should. The police mistake this for me having a hard time reliving my trauma, and they respond with sympathetic looks.

  ‘We know it’s difficult,’ Ruben says gently. ‘Take your time.’

  I nod and drop my head. My hands are resting on the starched white sheet, both wrists encircled with black bruises, and on top of the black ring around my left wrist, a plastic hospital band, identical, no doubt, to the one Imogen is wearing just a few doors down.

  When I look up again, I spot scribbled writing in Ruben’s little black Moleskine notebook. I can’t see what his words say. What Imogen said.

  Without knowing, I have to make a decision. I have to say the words I’ve rehearsed in my head and believe – trust – that Imogen and I are in this together. That we’ll do what it takes to protect this family.

  Only … I have no idea what Imogen is thinking. Not only did her little sister kill her brother, but just hours ago, she stood with a knife suspended above me, looking for all the world as though she was considering plunging it into my chest. If it hadn’t been for Jemima coming in … I shudder. I don’t know. I don’t have all of the information, and I don’t know how to make a decision.

  If I tell the truth, the whole truth, then Jemima will be dragged into all of this, she’ll be made to justify her decision to defend her mother and save her sister from doing something awful. She’ll be forced to relive it over and over again, and maybe even be a witness at a trial – I don’t know how these things work. There’s no way to ask without giving the truth away.

  If I say what really happened, but Imogen has told the version of the truth we agreed upon, or rather, that I whispered to her in a panic – Say you did it in self-defence, keep Jemima out of it – as we walked out of Brad’s home and towards the flashing blue and red lights, then we’ll both have some explaining to do.

  And yet, if I tell our version, and Imogen has told them what actually happened in that shed, if she isn’t loyal to this family, if she’s angry about what happened to Brad, about the lies, about everything – and, honestly, I can’t blame her if she is – well, then there will be no protecting Jemima. And then there will be more questions, and it could be so much worse than just telling the truth in the first place. It’s a gamble, however I play it.

  But in the end, I know there’s only one decision I can make, only one way to keep my family intact. I have to trust Imogen.

  Because isn’t that what she wanted all along – for me to trust her? And here I am, having to find the faith that she will lie to the police to protect the sister she’s not even related to. To protect the girl who killed her biological brother. It’s ludicrous to think that she’d choose to do that.

  I try to imagine what I’d do in the same circumstances, but I can’t picture it. I don’t know. I can’t fathom what my daughter is going through.

  And so I take another deep breath, less shaky this time, and I take the leap.

  ‘I woke up in the shed,’ I say. ‘I didn’t know where I was, but I could tell I was tied to something. I couldn’t feel my hands, and my head had been hit, I think. I tried talking to Brad, but he was angry; he wouldn’t listen. Every time I spoke, he’d hit me again. I was slipping in and out of consciousness, so I don’t know how much I was awake for, but I do know that he had a knife. I thought he was going to stab me. And then I heard Imogen coming in, and I tried to call out, but he hit me in the head and I passed out again. When I came to, he was on the floor and Jemima was helping to untie the ropes that I was held down with. I didn’t see what happened.’

  Ruben scribbles in his notebook. Troy looks at me, sizing me up, weighing my words. I breathe a silent prayer that my story matches Imogen’s, that this isn’t the beginning of another nightmare. I take a slow, controlled breath, and hold it in. I can’t meet Troy’s eyes. I look down at my hands and softly stroke the shackle-like bruises.

  ‘How did Jemima come to be in the shed?’ Troy asks after what feels like hours.

  I look up at him in surprise, letting out the breath in a rush of relief. He isn’t questioning my story. Does t
hat mean it’s the same as Imogen’s?

  ‘Uh … I don’t know,’ I say, trying to shift my focus to the question I’m being expected to answer. ‘I left her in the car. She was asleep – fast asleep – and I didn’t want to disturb her. But I suppose she must have heard a noise, or woken up and come to investigate. I don’t know.’

  ‘OK,’ Ruben says, snapping his notebook shut. ‘Thanks for your help, Kat. I think we have everything we need from you for now, although you will need to come down to the station once you’re released from here to sign your witness statement. But it’s a fairly straightforward case of self-defence from what you and Imogen have told us.’

  I don’t hear the rest of his words. I’m light-headed, dizzy with the knowledge that maybe, just maybe, this is all over. I try to act normally, to nod and smile in the right places, to say goodbye, but I’m barely aware of what I’m doing. The same single sentence is repeating in my mind, over and over again, until it’s branded onto my brain.

  Imogen is back.

  My daughter is back.

  It’s all I need. This knowledge, the fact that she did what she needed to in order to protect her sister, it quiets the symphony of doubt that’s been playing in my mind on a loop.

  Imogen feels a connection to this family, and however tenuous that might be, it’s enough that she lied to protect us. She didn’t have to say what she did. She didn’t have to be loyal.

  As the police officers leave, a smile spreads across my face until I’m grinning unreservedly. I close my eyes and let the relief wash over me, content in the knowledge that Brad is gone and no one is trying to split up my family, that Imogen doesn’t want to sabotage us. I know we’re a long way from forgiveness, and I’m certain there will be hard days ahead, but all that matters is that Imogen is where she belongs. With us. Safe.

  ‘Kat?’

  My eyes fly open in surprise. I didn’t hear any footsteps, but standing in the doorframe is a beautiful blonde young woman, a little gaunt, with dark circles under eyes that were never there before, but still unmistakably my daughter. She’s holding onto a metal pole, at the top of which is a bag of liquid, leading into her arm.

  ‘Oh, Immy,’ I sob, and she steps tentatively towards me, once, twice. I hold my hands out. She stops and looks at them for a second, deciding, judging, grappling. Tears flood down my cheeks as I wait. And I trust. And then slowly, almost robotically, she extends a hand towards me. I reach further and clasp her fingers between mine. ‘Imogen,’ I say, my voice high-pitched with emotion. ‘I’m so sorry, my love. I’m sorry. For everything.’

  She nods. Her lips are pressed tightly together to form a straight, harsh line. Her eyebrows are moving closer together, a frown taking over her pretty features.

  Normally, I’d fill this awkward silence. I’d erase it with words, with supplication, with anything that could convince her to forgive me, to want to be my daughter again. Because, after all, now it’s her choice. I chose her as my daughter all those years ago, and now it’s her chance. Her time to decide. She could walk away, and no one would blame her. Or she could see past my lies, understand that I only told them to protect her, and accept me as her mother. But I can’t make that decision for her.

  My chest squeezes as I consider the risk. What if she walks away? What if saving Jemima had nothing to do with her wanting to be part of this family, and everything to do with wanting to get away faster, to have this whole ordeal over and done with as quickly as possible so that she could escape us, unfettered by legal proceedings?

  A lump builds in my throat and threatens to choke me. Imogen’s gaze flickers between my left eye and my right, as though she might see something different in each. It takes every ounce of strength I have, but I stay quiet. I let my pleas die in my throat.

  And I wait.

  After seconds, or hours, I can’t tell them apart, she shuffles one foot. Just by a centimetre, almost imperceptibly. But I see it. She moved closer. I try to keep my elation hidden, but it’s too much. Another sob bursts from my chest, and I pull on her fingertips with my own, the movement propelling her forward.

  And finally, finally, she’s back in my arms. Where she’s always belonged. Where I can love her and protect her and never, ever lie to her again.

  Chapter 64

  IMOGEN

  She hovered in the doorway and watched for a minute, waiting for her heartbeat to resume its normal rhythm. The nurse had tried to stop her, but she’d begged to be let out of her room, to go for a walk. In the end, she’d had to compromise. She could go, but she had to take the IV drip around with her. The wheel squeaked as she shifted to the right.

  From where she was standing, Jemima looked tiny. Fragile, even. She was asleep, covered by starched white sheets and surrounded by machines that looked like they would harm rather than heal. But Jemima wasn’t attached to any of them. She was fine, the nurses had assured her. Just in shock.

  She didn’t want to say so to the nurses, but she doubted the girl was in shock. She knew Jemima well enough to be certain of that.

  The younger girl opened an eyelid, just a sliver, then clamped it closed again.

  ‘I know you’re awake.’

  Jemima sighed and opened her eyes fully. ‘Don’t be mad, Imogen.’

  ‘It’s not Imogen. It’s Amy,’ she replied wearily. She wasn’t sure if that was true either, but she wasn’t ready to let go of it yet. Her name was one of the only things linking her to her real family. And besides, she wasn’t Imogen any more; not really. She might look the same, sound the same, walk the same … but inside, she’d changed. That girl from before, she was lost.

  ‘OK, Amy, then,’ Jemima said. ‘Are you mad?’

  ‘Of course I am,’ she muttered, but she wasn’t sure if that was the right way to describe how she really felt, or if she’d ever be able to put her anguish into words.

  Jemima narrowed her eyes. ‘I’m not going to apologise. I did it because I had to.’

  The older girl set her jaw and stared. She wasn’t going to back down, just because Jemima wanted her to.

  ‘You know it’s true! If I hadn’t, you would have killed Mum—’

  ‘I wouldn’t—’

  ‘How do you know? I know I’m only twelve, but I could tell you were spaced out on something. And besides, you were so mad at her, and you wanted to be with your brother, and I know you were thinking about it, OK? There’s no point pretending with me.’

  ‘How do you know he was my brother?’

  Jemima rolled her eyes. ‘Mum and Dad think I’m an idiot, but you know better than that. Besides, it’s called listening.’

  She didn’t say anything, but she didn’t have to, because Jemima kept talking.

  ‘And so you might have killed her, or seriously hurt her, and then what? Run off with Brad; been a fugitive? Even if you didn’t stab her, Brad probably would have, and then you, for good measure.’

  She winced. She hadn’t allowed herself to imagine that scenario again, the one where she refused to do what Brad had asked her to do. She had no idea what he would have done. The brother she thought she knew – the kind, sweet guy who had cradled her when she was sick – seemed so hard to find among the whispers she was hearing now. She wanted to understand, to sit down and listen to his side of the story. But now she’d never find out, would never hear it from him.

  ‘Imog—Amy, don’t be moody. It’s over. I can’t take it back. And besides, things are going to go back to normal now.’

  ‘No. They’re not.’

  There was a pause as the two girls sized each other up.

  ‘If I hadn’t done what I did,’ Jemima said, sitting up in bed, growing animated, ‘I’d have lost you. And maybe Mum, but almost definitely you. I couldn’t let that happen. I needed you back at home.’

  ‘Ah, so there it is,’ she said bitterly. ‘That’s the truth, isn’t it?’

  ‘Amy,’ Jemima whined.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I know you don’t believe me, but I
am sorry that you don’t have your brother any more. I’m just not going to apologise for what I did, because I didn’t want you to die. And really, if you actually put yourself in my shoes, I didn’t have another option.’

  Imogen had considered that; she’d tried to understand what she would have done if their roles had been reversed. When Jemima had walked from Kat’s car into that shed, there were only two outcomes: either she stopped Brad, or he would have taken her family from her. And for Jemima, the Braidwood family was the only one she had. She didn’t have a secret set of siblings to run away to when things turned sour. She didn’t have anyone else to bail her out.

  ‘Amy?’ Jemima asked tentatively.

  ‘Yeah?’

  She felt her anger deflating, and resignation setting in. Not because she could forgive the young girl on the bed for what she’d done, but because maybe she could understand it. Maybe she understood it more than she would let herself admit. And because this wasn’t Jemima’s fault; not really. She hadn’t lied to her older sister for her whole life. On the contrary, she’d been utterly honest, and completely herself. Jemima hadn’t kept the truth from her. And yes, she had stabbed Brad. That would never be erased, could never be taken back. But she’d been faced with an impossible choice.

  They both had. The only difference was that Jemima was the one who had had the guts to act on it.

  Exhausted, she let her arms drop to her sides.

  There was no point fighting it any more. She knew Jemima. She knew that being angry – fighting – wouldn’t do any good.

  ‘This doesn’t change anything between us,’ Jemima whispered.

  Imogen wasn’t sure if it was a question or a statement. She shrugged. ‘You know we’re not sisters,’ she said.

  ‘So?’

  Imogen shrugged again. She wondered if it mattered. She wondered if it should.

  ‘None of that matters now that you’re back,’ the younger girl said, as though reading Imogen’s mind. ‘When we go home, things are going to go right back to the way they were.’ She smiled brightly.